Because Seven Eight Nine
by windscryer
Summary: Because of that fateful Tuesday, he has discovered he is willing to break the rules sometimes, and while the thought alarms him, he doesn't think there's anything he can do about it now that he knows.
1. Prologue

This is because Stray piped up first when I had another moment of insanity and offered to write another fic by request.

:face palm:

I gotta stop doing that . . .

So the prompts were 'Shawn, whump, and 'because seven eight nine'.

(It'll make sense later on, trust me.)

I doubt very much this is what she expected, but it's what she got. So yeah. Go. Read. Review.

Thanks! :D

Oh and, just in case any of you out there get any WEIRD ideas about me actually owning these guys . . . nope. Or this would not be a comedy.

Actually, with all the blood and whump it would probably be a horror and rated MA for mature audiences only . . .

* * *

There were many things about Shawn Spencer that Carlton Lassiter didn't like—well, actually, that list was pretty much endless.

(A much shorter alternate version would be 'Things About Shawn Spencer That Carlton Lassiter Likes'.)

That one had exactly three things on it.

(And one of them only applied on Tuesdays.)

The other two were, paradoxically, also on the list of things he didn't like.

(They were the top two actually.)

First, that he was right.

(Way too often to be dismissed.)

Second, was that he was likable.

(Even to Carlton who didn't really like anyone he worked with.)

There was a subclause to the second that was also a subclause on the list of things not to be liked.

(The list of things he liked had actually started out as things he didn't like, but the third item on the list could not be attributed to dislike, so it had to be retitled.)

That subclause caused most of the odd contortions his face was forced to attempt now that Spencer was a regular fixture in his existence.

(That being the fact that Spencer was funny.)

The entire list of things that Carlton Lassiter liked about Shawn Spencer came into play on that otherwise innocuous Tuesday.

(Because of that fateful Tuesday, he has discovered he is willing to break the rules sometimes, and while the thought alarms him, he doesn't think there's anything he can do about it now that he knows.)

(He's not sure he would if he could.)

* * *

Read and review, please and thank you!


	2. Chapter 1

Carlton walked into the station inhaling deeply in a recently ingrained reflex. His ears were perked and his eyes were actively scanning, his taste buds watering in true Pavlovian response. His fingertips twitched at the anticipation of being covered in sweet, sticky ambrosia.

He was rewarded for his devotion and unswerving focus by the sight of white dotted with a green that always made him think of money.

O'Hara was waiting for him by the communal coffee machine, but she was smart enough to know that she needed to wait to speak.

His fingers deftly snagged a napkin and then he was forced to endure his weekly moment of anguish.

How could he choose? It was almost physically painful that he had to limit himself, but he was stronger than the temptation. He knew mentally, if not physically, that he would regret giving in.

His stomach weighed in and said effectively—and loudly—that it didn't care which one he chose as long as he did so fast.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes, though he did pick randomly, the napkin coming up to catch any crumbs or—more likely—flakes of delicate glaze. Wasting them would be a crime indeed.

Even if they weren't as hot and fresh as he wanted because the nearest store that made them was almost eighty miles away. But still, they were as fresh as he could get without going there and if he did that he'd never get work done on a Tuesday. Also, he'd probably eat himself to death. A happy death, but death nonetheless.

He couldn't keep his eyes open though when his teeth sank in to the delicious softness and the sugar coated his tongue, melting with the heat and flood of saliva. It raced into his blood stream and went straight to his brain shutting down all higher functions.

He swallowed the first bite quickly—he aways did, because going down it carried the hum of pleasure he refused to allow out, even if he was no longer conscious enough to process why.

If he were to someday be a victim of random workplace violence that took his life he hoped it was exactly four minutes after eight on a Tuesday morning. He could die in perfect contentment then and only then.

"Lassie!"

He smothered a sigh with another bite. It was not one of resignation alone, however. Longing for an indefinite stay in this four minute vacation to heaven once a week was liberally mixed in as well.

But this was as routine as the rest of it and that made it a sacred—if annoying—part of the ritual.

O'Hara had to speak her line while he savored his current bite. "Good morning, Shawn. Thanks for the donuts."

"You're welcome, Jules."

Carlton swallowed bite two and paused long enough to mutter, "Thanks, Spencer," before he could resist no longer and had to take another bite.

These things should probably be checked to make sure they weren't laced with some sort of addictive and/or sedative-type drug, he always thought as he felt the calming buzz kick in and reason and logic were slowly released like hostages from the clutches of the felonious endorphins running loose in droves in his brain.

On Tuesday morning there were two things everyone in the station knew: 1. You didn't get between Lassiter and his Krispy Kreme. And 2. He would be somewhat slow to respond/react/do anything for about a half hour afterwards.

He probably needed counseling and a twelve step program. But the first step was admitting he had a problem and he couldn't quite bring himself to do that because it would mean that he was on his way to giving up this addiction.

He never wanted to give up this addiction.

It was also known by everyone that on Tuesdays Carlton Lassiter showed Shawn Spencer more slack than he showed him the entire rest of the week combined.

Because Carlton Lassiter was not the kind to bite the hand that fed him. And Shawn Spencer was the Bringer of Krispy Kreme.

There was even a bet in the station pool that if Carlton was witness to Shawn committing an actual crime on a Tuesday morning he'd let him off with a glare and a, "Don't let me see you do that again."

Many a stakeout debate ensued over whether or not this was true and the split in the police force would be a danger to their ability to work together if they weren't all reunited every Tuesday in the joy of sharing Krispy Kremes.

For Carlton wasn't the only one who loved them and with the glaze of brotherhood making all of them revert to childhood days of licking your fingers to clean up instead of using a napkin, they found their camaraderie was renewed.

Even if some of them were stupid enough to believe Lassiter would go easy on Spencer for any reason at all.

"You're welcome too, Lassie!" Spencer said. He was way too perky for this early in the morning, but he'd brought donuts so he'd be allowed to live. For now.

Not wanting to say something he'd regret—and by that he meant something that might end the donut deliveries—Carlton chose discretion and retreat as the better part of valor and walked back to his desk to finish his donut in peace.

Surprisingly Spencer didn't follow, though O'Hara did.

She remained silent, knowing that until the donut was gone trying to converse with Carlton—or, heaven forbid, get him to think about anything but his breakfast—would be both unsuccessful and just generally a bad idea.

She felt much like a hyena watching a lion devour a zebra. They had a sort of symbiotic relationship that some might call a partnership, but she knew that she was only tolerated, not welcome. If she overstepped her bounds and tried to encroach on his ability to think while he was still eating he'd turn on her and it would end with blood being spilled.

So she hovered at the edges and waited for him to finish.

Finally, his every last finger licked clean, his mouth wiped, and a long sip of coffee—the good kind which Spencer also supplied on Tuesdays—taken, he turned to her.

"Yes, O'Hara?"

"Shawn would like to speak with you outside."

Carlton blinked, then looked around with a frown.

"Wasn't he just here?"

"Yes."

"Well why couldn't he tell me this?"

O'Hara shrugged, though there was something about her expression that suggested she suspected she might know.

"He just asked me to pass along the message."

Carlton sighed. He was not looking forward to this. It was too soon to get up and actually do anything, let alone deal with Spencer in one of his moods.

"Fine. Let's go."

He started to walk away when he realized he was alone.

"O'Hara? You coming or what?"

She shook her head. "He said he needed to talk to you alone."

With an eye roll that was just delayed enough to be concealed by his turn he continued on his way and wondered if today he would have to go back on his unspoken vow to not harm Spencer on a Tuesday.

o.o

Spencer was waiting outside, but not right outside.

He was sitting on Lassie's trunk, feet up on the bumper and arms stretched out behind himself to acts as braces so he could more fully bask in the sun.

"Feet off the car, Spencer. In fact, all of you off the car."

Spencer grinned and jumped down, but when he pulled off his sunglasses Carlton was surprised to see that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lassie, hey! Thanks for coming, dude. We don't have much time," he said as he circled the car to the passenger side door and reached for the handle, "especially since we can't use the sirens, but-"

"What are you talking about?" Carlton demanded. "Where do you think we're going?"

"Not too far," Spencer said, tugging on the handle of the car again in a less than subtle request for it to be unlocked. "But we need to hurry and-"

"Spencer, stop. Just stop."

He stopped talking. Well, verbally.

But his body language and his facial expression continued to urge Carlton to get moving.

"What is this about, Spencer?"

His eyes flicked away, then back, so quickly that Carlton wasn't entirely sure he'd seen it.

"I'll tell you on the way," he said and pulled on the door handle again.

"No, you'll tell me now. Or I'm going back inside to do some real work."

"Can't you just trust me on this?"

The moment's worth of hesitation came solely from the fact that his answer could potentially affect his Tuesday morning routine.

But he wasn't a dishonest person, despite the danger to Krispy Kreme Tuesday.

"No."

A look of genuine hurt crossed Spencer's face and his whole posture seemed to deflate.

There was another moment of silence, then Carlton turned and headed back inside, valiantly repressing the feeling that he'd just taken a puppy and kicked a Superbowl-winning field goal with it.

It didn't escape his notice that Spencer didn't follow.


	3. Chapter 2

It also did not escape his notice that Spencer was away the rest of the day.

And he hated it, but that bothered him.

Item number . . . very high on the list of things he didn't like: Worrying about Spencer who was a grown man and yet acted enough like a child to have Carlton think of him that way more often than he should.

Especially since it happened most often when Spencer was in trouble or might be in trouble.

Mostly he hated this feeling because it led to him inevitably being so distracted worrying about what mischief the younger man was getting into that Carlton could no longer deny the fact that he had to locate Spencer and make sure he was okay before he'd be able to concentrate again.

He had no idea how Spencer got into some of the scrapes and situations that he did, but Carlton did know that while he could often also get himself back out, that was not always the case. And when he couldn't he expected Carlton and O'Hara to come to his rescue.

Like they were his personal knights in shining armor or something.

Carlton would have snorted at the thought, but he was too busy trying to decide if he should start his search at Guster' house or Henry's.

He opted to call Henry and visit Guster.

Over the phone the elder Spencer would not be able to divine the reasoning for the concern—or even that it was concern. He'd chalk it up to annoyance.

Plus Guster's place was closer and he had plans for this evening that didn't involve running all over town tracking Spencer only to find out he had crashed a wedding party down at the beach and was making an impromptu speech because the father of the bride was too drunk to do so.

One round of that humiliation was more than enough, thank you very much.

He'd sent O'Hara home hours ago and so needed only to tidy up a little and flick off his desk light before heading out to find Spencer.

He better be at Guster's passed out after crashing from a sugar high and too many 80's movies.

o.o

Carlton crossed the parking lot, alert as usual and maybe a bit more so than normal considering it was an especially foggy night.

Well at least the beach was unlikely with this weather, he thought with a sigh as thunder rumbled in the distance.

He unlocked his car and slid inside freezing with his briefcase hovering an inch over the passenger side seat.

His eyes were glued to the folded sheet of paper that rested on the steering wheel, the corners tucked in under the edges of the wheel and 'Lassie' scrawled across the center in an unfortunately familiar scrawl.

Carlton looked back at his door, but yeah, he was sure he'd felt the lock disengage. He glanced at the passenger door and saw it was locked. A quick check of the rear doors said the same thing.

Okay, well that was a new skill to add to the list of potentially illegal things Spencer was capable of.

The thunder rumbled again, closer this time, and apparently that was the sound of the clouds tearing in two because it was followed almost immediately by a drenching cloudburst.

A quick yank locked the rain outside with only a little dampness on his sleeve to show for his slow reflexes.

Oh this was just perfect, he thought bitterly as he watched the tiny rivers of water cascade down the windshield. Because having to search for Spencer wasn't bad enough. Now he had to do it in the pouring rain.

He sighed and considered going home, but the idea was rejected before he even finished thinking it. He'd never be able to sleep until he was sure Spencer hadn't pissed off the Russian mafia or managed to get himself locked inside a bank vault or something.

That thought his eyes went back to the note.

He hesitated, then gingerly lifted it and unfolded it.

It wasn't very much more wordy on the inside than Spencer had been earlier. Though it was just as cryptic and worrisome.

_Lassiter,_

_If you've found this note something went wrong. Please don't tell Gus, Juliet, or my dad._

_Shawn_

At the bottom were scribbled directions and a crudely drawn map.

Well at least he'd narrowed down the search area.

Although the request not to tell anyone who might genuinely worry about him did not make Carlton feel better.

He debated what to do. Really, he shouldn't go without backup, especially since something had obviously—as Spencer had put it—gone wrong.

Just to be sure this wasn't some kind of prank he pulled out his phone, looked up the last time Spencer had called, and hit send.

It didn't even ring, going straight to voice mail.

Well that wasn't good.

While the possibility was there that Spencer had simply forgotten to charge it, combined with the note it was not bringing any real comfort.

A second glance at the map, then he looked in his phone for another number.

Spencer had said not to call O'Hara. But two of them vanishing into a black hole in what appeared to be a rural area of the foothills above Santa Barbara would also not get them anything.

This phone was answered on the second ring.

_"Hello?"_

"Hi, uh, Francie?" Carlton asked with a wince, sincerely hoping he'd remembered the name correctly.

_"Detective Lassiter!"_ she said in happy surprise. Pretty much how she said most of the things he'd heard come out of her mouth. _"How are you doing?"_

"I'm . . . fine. I, uh, need to talk to Officer McNabb."

_"Oh, of course. One second."_ A hand was placed over the phone and then a muffled, _"Buzz!"_ A pause followed and then, _"It's Detective Lassiter."_

Less than a second passed before, another line picked up. _"Detective Lassiter? Sir? Is there something wrong?"_

Carlton hesitated, feeling a little stupid about this.

_"Sir?"_ McNabb asked. _"Are you all right?"_

"I need your help with something, Officer," he finally said.

_"Of course, sir. I can be at the station in-"_

"No. I'll swing by and pick you up. Don't get into uniform. But, uh, bring your weapon."

_"Yes, sir,"_ McNabb said like the good little obedient junior officer he was. _"I'll be ready when you get here."_

"McNabb?" Carlton said before he was hung up on.

_"Yes, sir?"_

Another moment to feel more like an idiot, then, "Can you refresh my memory on how to get to your apartment building?"

_"Of course, sir,"_ came back the immediate response, not a hint of recrimination or mockery to be heard.

Armed with directions and an acceptable—mostly—alternative to going alone, Carlton ended the call and plugged his phone in, then tossed it onto the seat and started the car.

The bright side to choosing McNabb over O'Hara was that if this turned out to be nothing he'd never have to endure any attempts at teasing. He knew that McNabb wouldn't dare speak against him.

Nice to know he still intimidated someone in the department.


	4. Chapter 3

True to his word—though Carlton had expected no less considering who it was—McNabb was ready when he pulled up. Ready and waiting on the front stoop of his building in fact, his wife at his side.

When Carlton pulled up McNabb bent his considerable height down to give his petite wife a kiss, then took the insulated lunch bag she offered and headed out. His long legs were put to good use getting him through the rain quickly, though he had to bend almost in half to fit into the passenger seat of the car.

It helped when he was able to locate the lever and scoot the chair back from O'Hara's preferred close encounter with the dashboard.

To his credit he didn't ask where they were going or what they were doing. He didn't ask anything in fact, and that both annoyed and soothed Carlton who had been trained out of silent passengers by O'Hara. Not that he liked the chatter, but he'd gotten used to the white noise of it.

The entire drive passed in silence, except directions and the brief crunchy time when McNabb rooted through the lunch he'd been packed—a fact that required much effort on the part of Carlton to suppress the eye roll—and found some goldfish crackers.

Seriously? Goldfish crackers?

They were little rainbow colored ones too.

Maybe he should have come alone. Now he felt like he'd brought his neighbor's five year old along to play cops and frickin' robbers.

He smothered the sigh and glanced at his . . . at McNabb.

"The turn is at mile marker twenty-five?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," McNabb said after checking the map again.

Carlton nodded and began searching for the road since he knew the green spot in the dark up ahead was the mile post.

And there it was.

He made the turn and they began what would hopefully be their last stretch of road before reaching their destination.

"Go two-point-three miles and there's a clearing. The house is another five minute walk, but if you drive any closer they'll probably be able to hear it," McNabb dutifully relayed. "Also, there seems to be some . . . grass or . . . or something that we can use to conceal the car."

Carlton nodded. And then wondered if he would find Spencer's beloved bike hidden there to show them they were on the right track.

His eyes regularly flicked to the odometer to keep track of how far they'd come just in case this was the wrong road, but sure enough at two-point-three miles exactly there was a clearing with some tall bushes to one side and a single track that indicated a one or two wheeled vehicle had come this way in the not too distant past.

And since Carlton was pretty sure Spencer hadn't brought a wide-wheeled unicycle, that was probably his bike's trail.

He maneuvered his car around and parked next to the missing-but-now-found motorcycle.

Well they were on the right track anyway.

"Okay, here's how this is going to go down," Carlton said, pulling his gun and checking it. McNabb's eyes widened slightly at the reminder that he was supposed to be armed as well and not because it was part of the uniform he wasn't wearing.

He pulled it out and checked it as well, looking just a bit paler than he had two seconds ago.

Carlton hoped there wasn't going to be rainbow colored puke before the night was over.

"We're going to go in and take a look around. We are not going to draw attention to ourselves if at all possible. And if anything goes wrong your job is to come back here as fast as you can and call for backup. Understood?"

McNabb nodded and after a second for Carlton to vainly wish it wasn't raining, he opened his door and got out.

And instantly sank into a good six inches of mud.

Oh well that was just fantastic.

His suit was going to be ruined before the night was over. He just knew it. At least it had stopped raining—for the moment anyway.

He suppressed yet another sigh and looked over the car to see McNabb watching him closely, waiting to follow.

With a curt nod he set off, squelching and squishing his way through the mud to the thick woods that barely allowed the road to sneak through them. Walking along the road would have been easier—if muddier—but it was also riskier, so they were forced to break a fresh trail that paralleled the road, just close enough to make sure they weren't straying but far enough away to not be seen if it wasn't as deserted as they would want.

The 'five minute walk' turned out to be more like a 'forty-five minute hike'. Carlton was glad he hadn't left McNabb at the car with instructions to call for backup if he wasn't back in fifteen minutes.

They finally reached the second clearing where their final destination lay, a log cabin of some sort it seemed.

Now the question was, why had Spencer come here and what had prevented him from leaving again?

He studied the property for several minutes to get a feel for the situation.

There didn't seem to be any life, hostile or friendly. No vehicles, though there were semi-fresh tire treads in the mud of the road indicating that someone had been here. No way of knowing when, or if, they'd be back.

That made now the best time to go in, look for Spencer, and drag him back out by the ears if need be.

Carlton motioned for McNabb to join him, then leaned over and very quietly said, "I'm going to circle the perimeter, then take a closer look. Stay here."

McNabb nodded, hands gripping his gun, but the expression on his face mostly steady.

Carlton turned and began his survey, his eyes flicking regularly towards the house to look for any signs of current occupation, but mostly on the ground trying to find any evidence of Spencer's presence.

Near the back he found it, a mass of churned mud from many footsteps, and his cell phone, open but drenched and half sunk into the mud. That explained the lack of reception when he'd called.

He looked at the house now and saw that there was an outside entrance to a cellar of some kind. The footsteps—and drag marks, he noted when he stepped cautiously out of the forest's cover—went straight there and then vanished.

Carlton gave the dark house one more look and then headed for the house in a crouched run, gun at the ready.

He listened carefully for any sounds, then regarded the cellar doors.

They were the big kind that opened upward, gravity keeping them closed as much as anything, though the thick chain and padlock linking the two handles helped them stay there.

With a grunt Carlton started around the house, eyes and ears open to any warning of company.

He had just stepped up onto the wide front porch when he heard it, the faint rumble of an engine.

Well crap.

Looking around, he was stuck between going in and hoping for a place to hide and hopefully to find Spencer and/or learn more, and the desire to run back to McNabb and call for backup.

Really, it would be smarter to do the latter.

But the drag marks out back that were mostly washed away wasn't giving him warm fuzzies.

And if something went wrong McNabb would call for backup.

That might not get here in time, but still.

The engine growl was much closer and he could see lights on the road.

Well that decided that.

He went straight to the front door and hoped that no one had been left behind asleep on the couch to guard the prisoner, the door shutting behind him just before bright light strobed through the room's large picture window to his left.

There was, however, a single room to the place. And no immediately appealing hiding spots.

The element of surprise flashed briefly through his mind as a plan, but he didn't have a completely legal presence here.

He needed to find Spencer.

And that was when he noticed the rug.

The old battered couch in the middle of the room faced the east wall to Carlton's left, where the TV was perched on an ancient three-legged coffee table.

Behind the couch, in approximately the exact center of the room was a rug. The odd thing was, it lay partially under the couch.

Why would you put a rug in that spot? Why not move the rug or the couch a few feet?

A door slamming outside had Carlton hurrying forward and yanking up the rug.

Sure enough there was a second entrance to the root cellar, one that was flush with the floor.

He yanked on the handle, stifled a grunt at the effort required, then looked down into the pitch black hole that awaited when he finally got it open.

Oh goody. This ought to be loads of fun.

And there were footsteps on the stairs out front.

He holstered his weapon and sat on the edge of the hole, stretching to find purchase for his toes on the ladder leading down.

It wasn't until he stopped to reach back and close the door that he realized he could do nothing about the rug.

A silent but forceful curse and he decided it was too late now.

He grabbed the edge of the door and pulled, having to drop down to avoid being cracked on the head when it gave in to gravity and fell. An awkward attempt to keep it from shutting with a bang was mostly successful.

Just in time too it seemed because the front door opened and the footsteps echoed overhead.

The rest of his descent was blind and he wasn't quite expecting it when he found the ground under his feet instead of another rung.

He stepped off and carefully turned.

A glance upwards cautioned him against speaking too loudly, but he needed to know if he had just needlessly trapped himself in here.

"Spencer?" he hissed.

There was no response and he dared to take a shuffling step forward, using one toe to lead the way.

"Spencer!" he repeated and continued cautiously making his way deeper into the abyss. Please let him be down here somewhere and not already carted off to be buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the woods.

His toe hit something solid that gave a low moan of protest and Carlton said a silent prayer of relief.

"Spencer?" he asked, slowly lowering himself to a crouch, hands out in exploration.

"Lassie?" came the groggy reply.

"Yes. What were you thinking?"

"I need a light, sweet pea."

Carlton blinked, despite the inability to see anything. Somehow that made even less sense than he was expecting.

"What?" he asked in shock forgetting to be quiet.

"Shh!" came the harsh response. Then in a more calm and soothing voice Spencer added, "It's okay, sweetheart. It's safe."

The only logical response Carlton could come up with was, "Are you concussed? How hard did they hit you?"

"Way too hard," Spencer said, sounding vaguely coherent again. "But, no, I don't think I'm concussed. My pupils were normal before."

Yeah, somehow, that didn't reassure him.

Especially since, you know, Carlton couldn't even see Spencer's pupils, let alone him being able to do it himself.

"Good job, munchkin," Spencer said right before there was a skritching sound and a light appeared in the darkness.

The fact that it illuminated a small face with large, sorrowful eyes made Carlton start and fall back on his butt.

"What the-" he said in shock. He was paid no immediate attention as she focused on touching the match she held to the end of a candle stub's wick. When it lit she blew out the match and then stubbed it in the dirt.

"Lassie, this is Bree. Bree, this is Lassie. He's the detective I told you about," Spencer introduced in a halting—and occasionally interrupted by coughing—voice.

Carlton was then subjected to a rather thorough inspection from eyes that could not physically been more than five, though they could just as easily have been in someone who was one hundred and five for all of life they had obviously seen.

Spencer coughed again and the eyes left him to go to the injured man, a tiny hand touching his shoulder.

"I'm okay," he panted when the fit had ended, but his eyes were squeezed shut and he was supporting his ribs with one arm wrapped tightly around them.

Bree looked up at Carlton again, though her eyes were not so much inquiring now as they were demanding he do something.

"What the he-" He glanced at Bree and hastily revised his words. "-heck happened to you, Spencer?"

"Bree's dad. And her uncle I think."

Carlton scooped up the candle, careful to keep it at a slight angle so as to allow the wax to drip on the floor and not him, and took a closer look at Spencer.

A cut above his eyebrows had a trail of dried and flaking blood across his forehead. A couple of bruises were beginning to blacken his arms and matched the one around his left eye, as well as the distinctive finger marks around his neck. His eyes were indeed normal sized and reactive to light, though they didn't track as well as they should. The rest of him was clothed, but there were a few rips and tears that no doubt hid more injuries as well as a multitude of bruises. His left arm was cradling his ribs, the other lay out in front of him and had a particularly nasty looking spot that looked somehow wrong, though the immediate nature of it wasn't obvious.

"It's broken," Spencer said, reading his mind as usual, his eyes closed. His whisper had more to do with the injury to his throat than any need to be quiet, Carlton now suspected. "Felt it snap. Puked up breakfast right afterwards too."

Which explained the faint stench and the dark spot on his sleeve.

Ew.

"Why did you come here alone?" Carlton demanded.

"I tried to tell you," Spencer said.

"No, you were cryptic and annoying, like always."

Spencer huffed what might have been a laugh, obviously cautious about causing another coughing fit.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Carlton asked.

"There wasn't time to explain," Spencer said.

"Oh yeah, because going on your own worked out soooooo much better for you."

"My plan did work."

"Your plan was to have the . . . crap beaten out of you?"

Spencer's brow furrowed. "Um . . . kinda?"

Now Carlton frowned. "What?"

"Look, I didn't want to get beaten up, but it did accomplish my objective in coming here."

"Which was?"

"To save Bree's life."

Carlton jerked back at that.

His eyes went to the little girl and now he saw that she wasn't without her own physical problems.

They weren't as extensive or dark, but there were four-and-one bruises on her shoulders and some scarring on her arms that made Carlton wonder if his dinner would be joining Spencer's breakfast. She wore what was generously described as a sundress, though the flowers and sun embroidered on it had a pall cast over them by the dirt and blood that stained them. Her long hair was filthy and hung in greasy clumps and there were dark streaks on her skin that might have been more bruises or might have just been dirt. Candlelight wasn't exactly the best for visibility in this situation.

"But how did you . . . she's not in the missing children database." Carlton knew those faces well, was haunted by them in his sleep.

Spencer snorted. "No, she's not. Her mother is dead. Her father brought Bree here after he killed her mom in front of her, but all of this happened while the family was supposed to be on vacation. No one's missing her yet. Not anyone that can tell the cops, anyway."

"So how did you find out?"

Spencer cracked his eyes long enough to give Carlton a look that clearly said, "I'm a psychic. You're a detective. You figure it out."

"Of course," Carlton muttered. He wasn't going to argue the possibility that Bree's dead mother had sought out Spencer from beyond the grave to rescue her child.

"So you, uh," Spencer said. "You didn't tell any of them, did you?"

"Your fan club? No. I left them sleeping the sleep of the blissfully ignorant."

"Good," was the softly breathed response.

"I brought McNabb."

A sad smile curved Spencer's lips. "Good old, Nabby. Wish he could have stayed home too, but at least you didn't come alone."

Carlton snorted. "No, I don't do that. I know better."

Another huffed laugh escaped.

"So, what's the plan for getting out of here?" Spencer asked, releasing his ribs to push off the ground and try to sit up. He made it about half an inch before the pain leaked out in a strangled squeak and he went back down.

"Ribs?"

"Not broken. Maybe cracked, hopefully just bruised."

"Hopefully," Carlton repeated, trying to figure out what to do. At this point all they could do was wait for whoever was upstairs to leave again or for the cavalry that McNabb had hopefully called by now to arrive.

Just in case he hadn't thought of it . . . Carlton pulled out his cell phone, but the single bar of service he got outside was not present here in the cellar.

Crap.

"Let's do something about that arm," Carlton suggested instead of answering the question he'd been asked.

"Do we have to?" Shawn asked.

"Unless you want to possibly lose the ability to use it ever again, we probably should."

Shawn sighed. "Fine."

With help from Carlton and under the close observation of Bree they rolled Shawn to his back.

A quick search of the cellar revealed that there wasn't much that could be used as a splint, so they improvised with Carlton's tie, using it to secure the broken limb against Shawn's chest. It was horrible, but possibly better than just letting it hang free.

"Now if we could just-"

The sound of the door opening had Carlton moving before he realized what he was doing, sliding back into the shadows in the corner.

There wasn't any place to hide down here really, but it would give him a few seconds' worth of surprise.

He pulled his gun and silently removed the safety, pulling back the hammer.

No one came down, however.

He blinked, then jumped when a glass bottle was tossed in their direction, the door slamming shut to echo the jarring sound of the bottle shattering.

"What the-"

"Oh no not again," Shawn moaned.

"What? What is-" Carlton broke off and cursed, raising an arm to filter his breathing through his sleeve. He knew that smell.

"Chloroform," Shawn said, sounding groggy already.

"Why . . ." he started to ask, but the fumes were getting to him. He couldn't go around it either because he'd have to go through it. His legs started to jellify, his arms following suit and he let the one with the gun drop. He leaned back against the wall so he wouldn't pitch forward as he began to slid down to the ground.

"Knows you're here," Shawn mumbled.

Carlton tried to curse, but he wasn't sure if he managed it before the world went black.


	5. Chapter 4

"Why was six afraid of seven?"

Silence prevailed for a few moments.

"Because seven eight nine!"

Carlton groaned, both because his head was pounding and because that was one of the worst jokes in the history of bad humor.

"Do you really think that's an appropriate joke to be telling her?"

"Lassie! Go see how he is for me."

The soft sounds of movement over dirt drew closer and then stopped just inches away.

Carlton figured he should make an effort and opened his eyes, relieved to see that there was a way to do so.

Bree's face hovered over his as she tried to assess his condition.

"I'm alive," he said and brought his hands up from where the rested on his stomach in preparation to roll over. Until he realized they were handcuffed together.

With another groan he dropped them back to his chest.

Perfect. Locked up with his own cuffs. And his gun was certainly gone too.

And Spencer had been witness to it all.

He was never going to live this down, he knew. If he survived this he should probably move. To Maine.

Maybe Australia.

Until then, however, he needed to take stock of the situation—in the vain hope it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

"Any idea how long we were out?" he asked as he resumed his efforts to roll over and make it up onto his knees at least.

"Not sure. Probably long enough for Buzz to get worried. You did tell him to call for backup if we didn't return, right?"

"Of course," Carlton said with a glare.

"That's good."

The door opened above them and all three sets of eyes went to the greater source of light.

Someone was coming down . . .

It took approximately half a second for Carlton to realize he recognized those mud-caked size fifteen sneakers and that dark blue windbreaker. The cavalry was already here?

But when McNabb reached the bottom and turned, looking first surprised then sheepish he began to suspect something was not quite right.

"Move over to the far wall," a voice from above ordered.

McNabb went to stand by Shawn's side.

"Try anything and Detective Lassiter there will have a third eye just like the psychic. Only his will be a lot more bloody."

Oh for the love of-

Sure enough seconds later the hole was filled with another man, this one dressed in biker boots, jeans, and a well worn t-shirt. He climbed down three rungs and then dropped to allow his friend still up there a clear shot once more with the rifle muzzle that had appeared and centered on Carlton's forehead.

He turned around and it was glaringly obvious that he had never worked on the right side of the law, though he was still probably well versed in the judicial system's ways.

A soft whimper drew Carlton's attention away from the newcomer and he turned to see that Bree had buried herself into Spencer's side under his good arm. From the wince on Spencer's face that was not appreciated, but he just wrapped his arm around her and murmured softly to her, ignoring the new man completely.

"You aren't supposed to be here. This is private property and you can't just barge in here and snoop around. You need a warrant."

Carlton opened his mouth but it was McNabb that spoke up.

"Actually, with reasonable expectation of exigency and possible danger to life a temporary warrant is granted by circumstance. We had reason to believe that Shawn Spencer's life was in danger and therefore could enter without needing a paper warrant."

Silence reigned as more than one person looked at him in shock, their captor apparently unable to process the mouthiness of the statement and Carlton surprised at the sheer chutzpah it required—something he hadn't expected McNabb to possess.

Especially since it was only vaguely accurate. Really it would depend on the judge ruling on the case as to whether the agreement would be with McNabb or not.

Spencer was faintly smiling and looking vaguely proud.

Yeah, encouraging behavior that Shawn Spencer believed was appropriate in a hostage situation was not something Carlton could get in on.

McNabb swallowed under the twin glares being leveled his way, but kept his eyes on the perpetrator.

"Also, you weren't home, so we couldn't exactly ask permission."

Carlton rolled his eyes. He would have banged his head against a wall if there had been one handy. And if he wasn't already getting that from the inside.

He should have come alone. He definitely should have come alone.

"You, over here now."

McNabb appeared to give the order some consideration, his gaze shifting to Carlton.

Oh sure. _Now_ he wanted direction.

"I said, move. Or do we need to start shooting?"

Carlton smothered a sigh and nodded.

McNabb returned to stand in front of the man, blocking him from view of the rest of them.

"On your knees."

Well now he was half visible. And fully pissed off.

A staring contest ensued for so long that it became slightly hypnotizing, waiting to see what would happen.

And then suddenly a hand lashed out and took McNabb across the face, sending him listing to the side until he could catch himself. A vicious kick to his side followed that took him down completely, a second following in quick succession to send him onto his back. Curled up and coughing he finally appeared to be little enough threat to the other man so the beating ceased there, for now.

Spencer hissed in sympathy but Carlton remained silent, glaring at the man who'd assaulted a fellow officer.

"Brady, get me those handcuffs."

The sniper took one hand off the gun—though it didn't waver—and reached over, before dropping McNabb's handcuffs down to his partner.

"Hands."

McNabb obediently lifted them up and held still while he was cuffed, though that probably had as much to do with the pain he was in as it did him 'learning his lesson'.

"Now back up to the wall with your psychic friend there. And take the other one with you."

McNabb carefully regained his feet and crossed the few feet to where Carlton sat. Between the two of them they got him to his feet as well and staggered back to the wall.

"Have a seat," the man said, smiling deceptively. "Make yourselves comfortable," he added with a chuckle.

McNabb slid down the wall on Spencer's right, an arm guarding his ribs, though Carlton remained standing next to him.

"Now what?" Spencer asked. "Going to find a kitten to drown?"

He was ignored. "Bree. Get over here."

Bree started, but just burrowed in deeper to Spencer's side.

"Bree! Now!"

She was shaking so hard that Carlton was concerned about brain damage.

"Just leave her alone," he snapped.

His daughter's disobedience combined with Carlton's mouth sent the blood rushing to the man's face. "Listen here you little-" he started and crossed the floor towards them, having to stop when Carlton blocked his way.

Spencer had done what he could and curled over top of the little girl, while McNabb put a hand on the wall and rallied himself to stand up again and assist if need be.

"Get out of my way."

"No."

The two men faced off and the whole room seemed to still, waiting to see what would happen.

No one expected a knock at the front door of the cabin.

Carlton blinked, then found himself staring at the back of the man who he'd been anticipating having to fight.

"Brady, see who that is and tell them to go away."

Before Brady vanished his partner pulled out Carlton's gun and backed up, aiming it at the owner.

His other hand came up to press a single finger to his lips in the universal gesture to keep quiet.

"What?" Brady growled above their heads.

"Hi, sorry about this, I know it's late, but our car broke down and my-"

"Brother-"

"-And I were wondering if you had a phone we could use to call a tow truck."

Shawn glared at Carlton and kicked him lightly in the shin.

"I thought you said you didn't call them!" he hissed.

"I didn't!" Carlton shot back over his shoulder.

The they both looked at McNabb and he shook his head. "I was just about to call for backup when they found me."

A jerk of his hand across their captor's neck got the message through that they were supposed to shut. UP.

Carlton didn't speak but he did roll his eyes. He was so coming alone next time.

"You're brother and sister?" was the dubious question.

"Adopted," the said in unison.

There was a grunt that didn't quite convey acceptance of that.

"Use your cell phone," Brady said.

There was a thump that could quite easily have been a boot being crunched between a door and a jamb, then O'Hara's voice came again, still sweet but insistent.

"We would, but you see neither of us get service up here. So if we could just come in and use the phone-"

Some quick but unidentifiable sounds followed, before O'Hara's voice returned, now her uncompromising cop's tone.

"Set it down slowly and keep your hands where I can see them. Now."

A moment of hesitation, then something, presumably the rifle, was set on the floor.

"Back up slowly."

They tracked his footsteps above them until they were beyond the trapdoor, more footsteps coming through the door.

"Carlton?" she called. "Buzz? Shawn?"

None of the men dared to respond however since they were still facing down a weapon. And then McNabb's was produced from the back of his waistband and aimed upwards.

"Henry," O'Hara said.

"Got it," he said, his shadow falling over the trapdoor moments later.

"Dad, no!" Spencer yelled.

Carlton dodged to the side reflexively and then the world exploded in sound.

Laying on the floor he wondered just how many guns had gone off at the same time just now.

Enough to remind him of the last reenactment they'd done. The one that Spencer messed up by butting into uninvited.

Even if he did solve the murder and the robbery/fraud.

Why did he have to poke his nose into everything? Why couldn't he leave some things alone? Was that too much to ask? Bad enough he had to deal with Spencer at work, but the regiment . . . it was off duty time. His hobby.

It was supposed to be Spencer-free time.

It occurred to him that his thoughts were wandering just a little and he couldn't immediately tell why.

Until his hearing returned and Spencer yelled in his ear, "HE'S BEEN SHOT."

"Gah!" he protested and tried to roll away.

Both Spencer's hand and the agonizing fire that burst into life in his shoulder stopped him. How had he missed that before?

And how had he gotten shot? He'd dodged. He knew he'd dodged.

He blinked open his eyes—vaguely concerned that he didn't recall closing them—and found himself staring at the open, blank eyes of the man who'd stolen his gun. Henry Spencer was crouched next to him, verifying he was actually dead.

Okay. He might have missed something.

Or a lot of somethings.

O'Hara was coming down the ladder and Guster was at the edge of the trapdoor looking down.

Carlton frowned. How many people had they brought with them? What kind of a rescue was this?

"Carlton?" O'Hara said as she made her way over. She looked at someone behind him and Spencer spoke up.

"He lost consciousness for a few minutes, though I think that might have been from hitting his head when he went down."

"Buzz, help me put pressure on this," O'Hara ordered. McNabb complied and she looked at Shawn again. "How are you doing?"

"I'll survive, though I'd sell state secrets on e-bay to the Commies for some painkillers right now."

O'Hara winced. "Sorry. But an ambulance is on the way." She looked around. "Or a couple of them hopefully."

"I'll be fine," Carlton ground out. "I can take a car back to the hospital."

"You will not," O'Hara said, shooting him a quelling glare. "You of all people are getting an ambulance. You're bleeding Carlton. Profusely."

"Spencer-"

"Is also getting an ambulance ride. Along with Bree. The other two . . . well an ambulance won't help them now anyway."

He hissed as McNabb put more pressure on the wound at O'Hara's direction.

"Now just shush Carlton. I have to call Chief Vick so she doesn't get blindsided by this too badly."

"How did you find us?" Carlton asked.

O'Hara gave him an odd look. "Francie called me and asked if I knew how late we were going to keep Buzz out."

"Francie?" McNabb asked, a look of worry suddenly infusing his features.

O'Hara nodded, and continued her story. "She assumed I was in on it because I'm your partner. Imagine my surprise when I found out that you and Buzz were investigating a case without me," she said in a slightly brittle tone, her smile not so much happy as accusatory.

"That was my fault," Spencer confessed. "I asked him not to tell you."

"Yeah, and what are all of you doing up here unofficially?"

"Long story," Carlton said, hoping to head off the explanation until after he had some painkillers of his own. Spencer had made an excellent point. Not about the selling state secrets, but the drugs.

"We've got time," O'Hara countered, arching an eyebrow.

Carlton sighed and closed his eyes. He missed the meek little junior detective that had held her gun in shaking hands on that first bust.

"Carlton?"

"Gimme second," he mumbled. It was getting harder to think. If he couldn't have drugs passing out would be nice.

"Carlton!"

He frowned. Couldn't she shut up for two seconds? Geeze. What had he ever done to deserve such a chatty partner? She never shut up.

"Carlton," she whispered.

Had he said something about the volume?

Oh no, wait. It was his hearing that was fading, not her voice.

"Bree, honey," Spencer said. "He's okay. He's just tired. He'll be fine, I promise."

Uh oh. That was bad wasn't it?

Before he decided the darkness was complete and he knew no more.


	6. Chapter 5

When next he woke it was to the sound of a heart monitor.

His brow furrowed, then tried to pry his eyes open, fighting the gunk that had collected to glue them shut. It proved to be too much effort and he gave up for now.

"They might release him tomorrow, depending on how much longer he stays under," O'Hara said quietly from somewhere near his feet.

"If he's lucky he'll stay under for another hour," Henry replied. "They'll have released Shawn by then and he never needs to know they were roommates."

Wait, what?

O'Hara chuckled. "That would definitely set back his recovery."

Henry chuckled as well, then sobered. "How is the little girl?"

"Bree's doing well, physically speaking anyway. Her injuries are all old or superficial. And now that she's been cleaned up she's a very cute little girl. Apparently she has an aunt that's expressed interest in taking her she probably won't have to go into the system. She's very lucky."

"That's good," Henry said.

"She's had such a hard life so far. I'm not sure she'd survive the system."

"She'd survive," Henry disagreed. "But she wouldn't be the cute, sweet little girl she is now."

Carlton wavered between letting them know he was awake and going back to sleep. He didn't want to make the effort, but the longer it took to tell them he wasn't brain damaged the longer they'd keep him.

Unless he was brain damaged and that was why he couldn't get his eyes open . . .

He vaguely heard the sound of the heart monitor beep speeding up.

"Hey!" Spencer shouted.

"What is it, Shawn?" O'Hara asked, moving away.

"Lassie's awake. And freaking out."

There was a pause, then the hurried clicking of O'Hara's heels came over to his side.

"Carlton?"

He tried to speak but it came out more of a gargled moan.

"Henry-"

"I'll get a nurse."

"Come on, Carlton. Open those eyes. That's an order, Detective."

He frowned and concentrated.

"I . . . give the orders . . . O'Hara," he croaked. Guh. He needed a drink so badly.

He heard a wet sort of laugh.

"Thirsty," he tried to say, but he'd expended his ability to talk without a drink.

"Here are some ice chips," Spencer's voice said, suddenly right next to him. Well at least those psychic powers were good for something. Hooray for Spencer.

He would get a quick death for that.

"Thanks," O'Hara said and moments later his lips were being nudged by a plastic spoon.

Icy bits of sweet, sweet joy were deposited on his waiting tongue and he couldn't help the sigh that escaped as they melted and soothed his parched mouth. He felt more alive already.

Two sets of footsteps entered the room, one brisk and purposeful, the other soft and unhurried.

"Detective Lassiter?" a male voice he didn't recognize asked. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

"I think tho," he said, lisping from the fresh spoon of ice he was working on.

He gave it his best and after a moment—fighting the suction of the sleep gunk accumulated over however many days he'd been here—succeeded. They popped free and he blinked rapidly against the bright lights.

And started at Spencer's face just inches from his own.

"GAAHH!" He choked on his ice chips and that set off a round of coughing.

"Ow! Jules!"

"Shawn, try not to kill him as soon as he wakes up, okay?"

The unfamiliar male voice was back. "Easy there, detective. Breathe with me, in and out."

He had rolled onto his side to try in a reflexive move to help with the choking, gagging with the spike of agony that drove through his shoulder, and then opened his watering eyes to see that it was his nurse who was talking to him. A male nurse. Lovely.

"Just breathe. That's it."

A stern look was leveled over his shoulder.

"Mr. Spencer, shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I broke my arm, not my leg."

"And cracked some ribs. You need to keep unnecessary pressure off them. Now lay down or I'll have you sedated for your own good."

You know, male nurses weren't so bad. And they were a lot less embarrassing when you needed help going to the bathroom . . .

"Detective?"

"What happened?" Carlton asked.

"What do you remember?"

Carlton took some time on that. "Getting shot?"

The nurse, Derek Morris according to his name tag, nodded and began taking vitals and just generally checking him out as he explained.

"That's right. An artery was nicked and you were bleeding internally as well as externally. You passed out from a combination of blood loss and the mild concussion you sustained when you fell. But thanks to the skilled hands of your surgeon and your operating team we were able to patch you up. It will take some time, but now that you're awake and coherent I can say with confidence that it appears you'll be back to full strength with no long term disability from this."

Carlton nodded.

That was very good news.

"You'll be here for a few days at least but your physical therapy will be on an outpatient basis."

That was even better news.

"O'Hara, did you ever explain how you found us? And why you brought Shawn's backup singers instead of some more officers?"

Movement behind her caught his eye and he saw Henry's arched eyebrow and mouthing of, "Backup singers?"

He shrugged. He was on drugs. That was all the excuse he was going to offer. It ought to work well enough.

"I started to," she said, but explained again for his benefit. "After Francie called I called you to find out what was going on. You didn't answer and neither did Buzz, but Francie said you had been in your official vehicle, so I called and had the Lo-jack traced. I was with Gus at the time of Francie's call and Henry called him while I was on the phone with the Lo-jack people. Gus wouldn't stay behind but he didn't know how to use a weapon and I didn't really have anything concrete to go on for requesting official help so . . ."

He blinked and then got the feeling he'd missed something when he opened his eyes back up and saw O'Hara in front of him. Hadn't she been on the other side of the bed?

"Visiting hours are over. I'll be back tomorrow, Carlton."

He nodded—or thought he did—and then let his eyes close again. He hadn't been awake but from the decrease in pain he was pretty sure he'd been given another dose of painkillers and he was finding it not worth the effort to stay awake.

If he was lucky Spencer would be gone when he woke next . . .

He could only hope.


	7. Epilogue

There are still many things about Shawn Spencer that Carlton Lassiter doesn't like.

(He's pretty sure nothing can change that, no matter what Shawn does.)

But somehow the list of things to like about Shawn Spencer has grown.

(The list of things to not like has also grown, but it does that on a daily basis, whether he sees Shawn that day or not.)

Fourth, he was willing to sacrifice his life to save a child.

(Even if he was an idiot and didn't take backup which would have made that UNNECESSARY.)

Fifth, he has the charisma to make people follow him without even blinking.

(Even if that makes them seem kind of stupid, it's impressive nonetheless.)

Carlton Lassiter will never ever, EVER tell anyone this, but there are days he wishes he could be a little like Spencer.

(Mostly Wednesdays.)

Chapter End Notes:

OMLASSIE IT'S DONE! YAYZ!

Review, please and thanks.

And no, I have no idea how Lassie took over since the prompt was for Shawn.

SNEAKY LITTLE SON OF A GUN.


End file.
